Come Closer, You Have a Mosquito on Your Face
by Wofl
Summary: Sam and Dean go camping. And start a war of epic proportions. Gen. Preseries. Wee!Chesters. PG. humor.


It started with a slap.

One minute, they're camping, all hunky-dory in the middle of the woods, staking out a pack of unruly nymphs. The next, Sammy is complaining non-stop, babbling on and on, asking Dean _why'd we have to camp out? When's Dad gonna get back? Why couldn't we go too? What's for dinner?_

On and on, right? And Dean's getting more and more annoyed as the minutes pass and thinking that Dad was smart to leave them both behind at the campsite where their protective charms and salt rings would keep them safe out here in the boonies. Nothing in their supply bag or in the trunk of the Impala can keep Dean safe from Sam's mouth, however. Just a few weeks past turning eleven and Dean's already come to the conclusion that he decidedly does not like Sam's preteen stage.

"Would you can it, Sam? Dad'll be back when he's back." Dean drops a few logs down beside the ring of rocks that he's been steadily building as he studiously tried to ignore Sam's barrage of questions. "Shut up and help me get the fire going before it gets dark."

"I hate camping," Sam responds, and drops to his knees in the dirt, grabbing a fistful of newspaper and shredding it viciously, taking out all his camping induced rage on the poor defenseless kindling. He dissolves into self-indulged mutterings as he works, helping Dean build a tepee, meticulously placing each stick and setting the kindling in the middle. He's still complaining when the whole thing goes up in smoke and tiny threads of orange spark and grow, climbing up to taste the timber and finding it good.

And Dean? He just can't take it anymore. Seriously. His ears are going to fall off. So he does the only thing he can think of that will shut Sam up in a hurry. He smacks Sam on the forehead, smartly, but not hard enough to actually hurt. Sam turns to him with this hilarious, stunned expression and clams up immediately, because his mouth is too busy hanging open to actually form coherent, angry words that Dean can see bubbling in his expression. It takes him a full minute before he can manage a strangled, "What the heck, Dean?"

"There was a mosquito," Dean offers by way of explanation, and shrugs. "Gotta admit though, never pegged you'd be such a bitch about a little love tap."

"I'm not a b-" Sam falters over the word. "Don't call me names."

"Can't even say 'bitch' Sammy?" Dean doesn't even try to hide his mirth at Sam's obvious discomfort. It's not surprising, really. If Dad heard either of them using such language, they'd both get slapped, and probably be made to run five miles. But Dean's old enough now, to be just a little rebellious and swearing out of earshot of his Dad makes him feel kinda badass, especially now that he knows his little brother is still too chicken to follow suit.

Sam scowls, completely unimpressed, but turns back to the fire, piling on a log with more force than is needed. The fire sparks and spits up at them and Dean barks a sharp _watch it!_ at his brother, who's decided that complaining can only be trumped by sulking.

Half an hour later and Dean's sick of Sam's tantrum. He's ready to call truce, if only because he's bored as all hell and there's absolutely nothing to do. He's starting to wish his dad had let them tag along. Sam's being no fun at all. He's holed himself up in the tent _reading_ for crying out loud.

Sometimes Dean's not entirely sure they're actually brothers.

He takes glee in the fact that in another half an hour, it'll be too dark to read anyways, but the prospect of another lonesome, boring half an hour of being stubbornly ignored doesn't seem too fun.

"Sammy," he calls, smacking the side of the tent, causing the entire structure to tremble. "Come on, let's make something to eat."

Food is a form of apology in the Winchester family.

"What're we having?" Sam emerges, eyes wary but hungry and Dean offers him a smirk. He tells him to make sure the tent's zipped because he doesn't want to sleep with bugs and rummages around in the cooler to see what's available.

"Find us some sticks, we'll make hot dogs," he tells Sam, fishing the package out of the ice. Sam nods and wanders off into the tree line, but doesn't leave the vicinity of the campsite; Dean watches him out of the corner of his eye to make sure, even as he flips out his pocket knife and slits open the plastic packaging.

Sam comes back with the sticks and Dean uses his knife to sharpen the ends before thrusting them deep into the fire, letting them turn black. He doesn't let them burn, just heats them enough to sterilize any forest funk that might be growing on them. He hands one back to Sam and spears a hot dog on the end of his own, pulling up a log to sit on while he waits for the fire to cook it through.

It's an easy meal, both of them cooking and consuming as many as they feel like eating, until the only thing left is the cellophane the dogs had been wrapped in when they'd bought them. By the time they're finished, dusk has settled like oppression around them. It'll be full dark soon, and Dean suddenly realizes that they don't have any water for the fire. And while it's not entirely necessary - they don't plan on putting it out anyways - it is irresponsible, and if their father has managed to teach them anything, it's that prepared is always the way to be.

He grabs the plastic pail kept for such occasions and tells Sam to keep his butt planted. It's one thing to risk himself, leaving the circle of protection he helped his father set up before John had left, but to risk Sammy? No way, no how. Not even on the list of options. It's only five minutes walk, if that. Sam's old enough, now, to spend ten minutes on his own.

That doesn't stop him from worrying the entire way to the stream, and all the way back. By the time Dean stumbles back into camp, he's increased his pace to a fast trot, water sloshing over the edge of the pail, frenzied half-formed scenarios of things going wrong while he was away chasing each other through his mind.

He's relieved to find that nothing has changed. Sam is still sitting by the fire, looking rather bored, but otherwise fine. Dean allows himself to breathe, lets the worry subside and plunks the bucket of water down next to the fire.

"Hey," he says, taking a seat beside Sam.

"Hey," Sam replies and doesn't look at Dean.

In fact, Sam acts like he's deliberately avoiding Dean's gaze. Dean scowls. Surely Sam can't still be mad, right? Well, only one way to find out.

"You wanna play poker?" Dean pulls a deck of cards from his jacket pocket and holds the pack up for Sam to inspect. Sam glances up at him and his lips quirk up at the edges and he snickers a little, though there's nothing, really, to be laughing about. Sam schools his expression quickly and nods, snatching the deck out of Dean's hands. He shuffles and deals and then Dean proceeds to school his little brother's ass in five-card draw.

But he's not a complete dick, honestly. He lets Sam win a few rounds.

When they're both sufficiently bored and tempers are running high enough that the game isn't fun anymore, Dean scoops up the cards and stuffs them back into the ratty box. Sam's yawning already, acting really tired, so Dean decides it's about time for bed. Not like they have anything better to do.

He banks the fire and walks the perimeter of their camp with a flashlight, checking on the salt lines before ushering Sam towards the tent. They change in silence and Sam crawls into his sleeping bag, pulling the edge up over his nose and mouth. Just his eyes peek out from beneath and he watches Dean carefully. Kinda creepy, really.

"Put your eyes back in your head, Sammy. Quit staring," Dean grouches as he crawls into his own sleeping bag. It takes a few seconds for a sort of gross, sticky feeling to register in his mind and then Dean is scrambling right back out, yelling and cursing.

Sam howls with laughter as Dean rips open the zipper and peels back the material. He gropes for the flashlight and directs the beam towards the inside of his sleeping bag.

Slugs. Almost a dozen.

"Oh gross, what the HELL!? Did you do this Sam?"

Sam's laughing too hard to respond and that's answer enough for Dean.

He growls low in his throat and throws his pillow at Sam and starts picking the slugs one by one out of his sleeping bag, and throws those at Sam too. "This is completely disgusting, Sammy, you are _SO_ dead in the morning."

Sam makes a face, but unzips the flap of the tent, picks up each of the slugs Dean throws and puts them outside, still laughing. Dean scowls and climbs back into his now mollusk-free sleeping bag and begins plotting his revenge.

"You do know this means war, right?" Dean asks, and thinks of maybe utting a laxative in Sam's coffee in the morning. Or hiding worms in the middle of his burger and watching him eat it.

"Bring it on," Sam shoots back, still confident, still absolutely gleeful. Perhaps he wouldn't sound so happy if he knew what Dean is planning.

If he knew that what he has just done; has started something that will follow him for the rest of his life. If he could look in the future and see just where this prank war will lead him, that he'll end up freakin' _bald_ at one point, he maybe would have thought twice about filling Dean's sleeping bag with bugs while he was off playing Jack and Jill.

As it is, he simply reaches over, flicks off the flashlight in Dean's hand and is still laughing when Dean falls asleep.

_Let the games begin._


End file.
